


Peppermint and Vanilla

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 13:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13435710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Jerome Eugene Morrow never got sick. His validity had kept him virus-free for as long as he could remember.Unfortunately it turned out that carrying the Jerome Morrow name did not grant you the same invulnerability.





	Peppermint and Vanilla

Eugene liked the cold.

In this part of the country it always swept in like a knife, slicing through any layers of clothing, scraping the skin on his face and neck. When he was a boy he lived in England where it was a bit warmer, though not by much. Here the wind blew stronger and the temperature dropped quicker. He used to love it as a novelty and now, after living here for a couple years, he loved it as part of his home.

Vincent worried about him because of how long he often stayed out in the cold. Sometimes at night he drove his wheelchair out onto the porch and just sat there, bundled up but still exposed to the elements. Vincent told him it wasn’t healthy and he was bound to get sick.

Eugene always laughed. He loved the intensity of temperature, the way it made him sharply aware of his own existence, pulled him back into his own body and out of his usual lethargic haze. And Jerome Eugene Morrow never got sick. His validity had kept him virus-free for as long as he could remember.

Unfortunately it turned out that carrying the Jerome Morrow name did not grant you the same invulnerability.

Vincent came down with a cold on a Friday. In the morning he told Eugene he had a sore throat, and blew his nose several times. Worried, he packed a number of handkerchiefs in his briefcase, as many as he and Eugene collectively owned. If someone analyzed the DNA in the snot on a discarded tissue it would be just as bad as a blood sample.

Eugene said, “Be careful.”

Vincent nodded seriously.

When he came back home at the end of the day he was actually blowing his nose even more and his eyes had gone red.

“I’m going to bed early,” he announced at dinner. He’d eaten a fair amount of the ordered Chinese food and drunk a lot of water, but usually on Fridays he indulged in a little wine and tonight he had not.

Eugene nodded with a bright smile. “Sleep well.”

“I will.”

As soon as he went to bed, Eugene got the phone and made a call to German. Ring ring, ring ring.

“Hello?”

“This is Jerome Morrow.”

“Jerome? Usually you’d be avoiding my calls this time of the month. Decided you want to pay my monthly fees early?”

Of course he hadn’t. There was never enough money around the house—Gattaca wages were good but the borrowed ladder expenses combined with a typical Gattaca employee lifestyle drained all the cash as soon as it arrived. “Be serious. We have a problem.”

“A problem?” There’s an edge to German’s voice now. He’s relaxed enough when talking to Eugene usually, even enjoys a joke or two at Eugene’s expense. But now he’s all business. “Is your situation in…”

“Vincent’s sick,” Eugene blurted out.

“Sick? Is it serious?”

“I don’t know. He says it isn’t but he’s a goddamn stoic. I mean, he says his heart problems are nothing too and we both know…” Eugene snorted. “For all I know he could be dying.”

“What are his symptoms?”

“He’s been blowing his nose. His face has gotten red, and I saw that one of his handkerchiefs had a little blood on it from the force. He seems exhausted. And when he talks, it sounds like the words are scraping his throat. He’s in so much pain he’s not talking.” Eugene swallowed. “I don’t…”

“So he has a cold.”

“A bad cold.”

“You called me over a cold.” German’s voice was flat. “This is an emergency?”

“He could die! You know his immune system is weak.”

“People who catch colds a lot when they’re young have built up defenses to them over time. I’m sure he’ll heal fine. Just be patient. See if you can help him out.”

“How am I supposed to help?”

“Get him some medicine. Make sure he stays warm. Maybe some soup and tea. Why are you asking me? I’m not exactly a nurse.”

“Well, you know about invalids. You deal with them all the time.”

German groaned. “Call me back if there’s a real problem. And if Vincent gets better within the week, this cold is not a real problem. I trust the two of you to manage.”

He hung up.

Eugene gritted his teeth. German hadn’t been exactly helpful, but Eugene would do anything to make sure Vincent got better.

* * *

 

“You made breakfast?” Vincent said.

He’d woken up a bit later than usual this morning. Well, it wasn’t even morning—one pm now—but he was sick and his body had to sleep it off. He’d gotten many colds over the years, and by now he knew that was the best way to deal with them: sleep a lot and wait for the storm to pass.

He woke with Eugene sitting in a corner of his room watching him. Quietly, patiently, a small frown on his face. Vincent made a joke that just because he slept late didn’t mean he was dying and Eugene laughed at him in a weirdly fake way and rolled off. Only to come back ten seconds later with a tray carrying eggs, toast and a glass of orange juice.

“The eggs are warmed up in the microwave. I made them hours ago. The toast is probably cold. I can make you new toast.”

“That’s fine. I can get myself some.”

Eugene scowled at him. “Sick people are supposed to stay in bed.”

“Yes, but I’m not that…”

“I googled it. So, you’re going to stay in bed and get better.”

“Eugene, I need to use the bathroom.”

Eugene frowned, considering the dilemma. He wheeled his chair back a little to give Vincent room. “Fine, but then you are getting back in bed. You wouldn’t want my eggs to go to waste, would you?”

“No. It’s very nice of you to make eggs.”

“Hurry up. And then, back to bed.”

The eggs were not very good. Eugene had under-seasoned them and, as Vincent had already known from experience, he was not all that good at cooking in general. But the cold made him like them anyhow. He even gobbled up the toast, and he chugged the orange juice.

“Now,” Eugene said, “you should go back to sleep.”

“I just woke up.”

“You’re thinking of getting out of bed!”

“Well, yes…”

“Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

Eugene returned a moment later with a stack of books, ranging from _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_ to _Dead Poets_ Society to Sherlock Holmes, with a couple Patricia Highsmiths thrown in for good measure. He threw them all in Vincent’s lap.

“You want me to read?”

“No, Jerome, I want you to stack them and build a fortress.”

“I can’t read all of them at once,” Vincent pointed out.

“Well, pick one.”

He picked _The Talented Mr. Ripley_. Settled in, leaning against his headboard. Glanced up. “You know, you don’t have to stay here for this.”

Eugene cleared his throat. “Do you need any more blankets?”

“I think I’m good.”

“Well if you need anything, call me.”

He wheeled himself out.

* * *

 

In the evening Eugene dug a can of chicken soup out of the cupboard (they never ate canned foods but had a stock anyway for some reason) and heated it up. He also made Vincent a cup of peppermint tea and a cup of vanilla tea for himself, so Vincent would have some encouraging company.

He allowed Vincent to get out of bed for dinner.

“So, the book was pretty good.”

“I read it years ago. Don’t remember it.”

Vincent sipped the tea. “Well, I guess you can’t mess tea up.”

“I’m British, remember?” Just because he usually preferred liquor to tea didn’t mean he didn’t know how to make it.

“The soup’s…Campbells? Why do we even have that?”

“Would you prefer for me to make my own soup?”

Vincent hushed after that with the criticism. Eugene had never tried to make soup, and probably that was very much for the best.

“Perhaps I’ll stay up,” Vincent said. “I was thinking…”

“Your voice sounds terrible,” Eugene said. “Go back to bed.”

Vincent drank a bit more of the tea. “Perhaps I’d better.”

“We want you well by Monday. There’s no way it would take a valid that long to recover from the common cold.” Eugene pointed a finger. “Bed. I’ll change the sheets tomorrow.”

Vincent huffed but obeyed.

By Monday he was still blowing his nose sometimes but considerably better. Eugene was relieved. He was running out of soup cans—their cupboard was stocked but not exactly crammed. He told Vincent to get more. It was only early December, and if Vincent went down this hard when he had a cold, Eugene wanted to be well prepared for the winter.

Vincent still argued that the cold hadn’t been that bad. But Eugene knew better.

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted "Gattaca: peppermint vanilla. #aesthetic, actual flavors need not appear in the story."  
> The flavors do appear but overall I was going for a snuggly winter vibe, so I hope that's good.  
> Comments and kudos would be much appreciated :)


End file.
